I RETURNED TO Furnival’s Inn with no other plan than to fall into a dreamless slumber. With the strokes of two after midnight tolling from the clock tower near the inn, I ascended the staircase to my rooms. My footsteps dropped a concrete thud against the wooden steps, my joints groaned despite my youth, and my eyelids were half-closed under the weight of the night.
I yawned as I fumbled for my keys with numb fingers.
Then my heart stopped.
The doormat had been disturbed, and scratches had been etched in the paint around the keyhole as if someone had used a butter knife to force the lock open. Black and smudged fingerprints were smeared on the brass knob. The door was ajar, a faint glow from perhaps a single coal in the hearth, and a faint and deathly whistling.
Fezziwig? Absurd. Then
